


Tick Tock

by toyhto



Series: Staying Alive [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But soppy, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 02:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13777398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: He’s become emotional, yeah, there’s no way to deny that. Could be because he’s getting old or because he's dying. That’s just the way the things are, Alfie’s dying and Tommy Shelby is a stubborn idiot.





	Tick Tock

**Author's Note:**

> This is not exactly the angsty sequel I promised to write to _Staying Alive_ series, which only means that there's going to be yet another story. But I had to try something of Alfie's POV first.
> 
> This will probably make more sense if you read [Staying Alive](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13205445/chapters/30207141) first. If you don't, just check the tags and you should be fine anyway :)
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!

It just isn’t fucking right.  
  
He’s told Tommy that, hasn’t he? Many times. Terribly many. You’d thought that the man would listen but no, not Tommy Shelby. Even if both of them surely know that Alfie’s right, yeah, they know. _Tommy_ knows. It’s just that the bloody idiot must always be so fucking dramatic about everything, always right, always certain that whatever happens to come into his mind is a proper way to do things. That what he’s like, Tommy Shelby. He never listens to Alfie. Maybe it’s some old trauma from France or just a goddamn joke of whoever created Tommy Shelby.  
  
And it’s alright when it comes to business. Alfie’s known Tommy Shelby for a long time. He knows how stubborn the man is. Possibly he knows that better than anyone else because he crossed Tommy Shelby three times and the man always came back to him, almost as if the fucking idiot just didn’t get that Alfie was no good. Of course, now there’s quite inconvenient pain somewhere in his chest when he thinks that Tommy should’ve fucking stayed away. He’s become emotional, yeah, there’s no way to deny that. Could be because he’s getting old or because he's dying. That’s just the way the things are, Alfie’s dying and Tommy Shelby is a stubborn idiot.  
  
It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t like the man. He fucking _adores_ the man. These days, it seems that half of his time goes to trying to hide from Tommy how damn _smitten_ he is with the bloody idiot. It’s not his fault, not really, because Tommy Shelby is a pretty man, a beautiful man if you prefer that word, the most incomprehensibly beautiful man Alfie’s ever met and ever will, because of the, you know, dying. He’s running out of time and it’s happening fast. But sometimes, usually when he has Tommy laying naked in the bed, his skin damp, his eyes hazy, his mouth half-ajar, and all of that because he’s just let Alfie fucking Solomons fuck him – well, sometimes he’s absolutely certain he’d never meet anyone like Tommy Shelby even if he wasn’t going to die in, what was that, five weeks? Maybe six, if he’s lucky, so said the doctor. The poor fellow. He didn’t have the heart to tell the good doctor that he’s never been lucky in his fucking life, except, of course, two times when Tommy thought about killing him and didn’t. But Tommy knew. Tommy stood in the fucking corner in the fucking hospital room because the idiot just never, never _listens_ Alfie, and Tommy’s face was as grim as an average day in London. The fucker knew that Alfie’s not going to be lucky.  
  
So, three weeks, perhaps. If it happens faster, he’s going to be mad about it. Surely he should get three more weeks.  
  
Only sometimes he wonders what he will do when Tommy finally listens to him and fucks off. Not that Tommy has shown any signs of doing that, but still. Alfie’s coughing blood now. Only a little, and usually he manages to hide it from Tommy, but this isn’t getting any better. They both know it. And he knows that Tommy doesn’t mind _blood_ , of course not, in their line of business, but what Tommy should mind is spending time with someone who can’t fucking stand up without his cane anymore. The cane used to be partly for the show, now he can’t do anything without it. He can’t walk without it. He can’t fucking take a piss without it. And he can’t fuck Tommy -  
  
Okay, he can’t fuck Tommy at all anymore. He can’t. And Tommy knows it. They haven’t discussed it, though, not really, because how fucking grim would that be. He can imagine it just fine. They’d be sitting in Alfie’s drawing room, drinking tea, eating biscuits, and he’d politely ask whether Tommy has noticed that he can’t get it up anymore. Or if he can, it doesn’t last, especially not enough that he could get Tommy on his knees on the mattress, or on his back, or in Alfie’s lap, or anything they used to do. And Tommy would say, _oh, I have noticed_. And Alfie would say _the weather’s been fucking nice lately._  
  
But it’s not like he’s completely useless. Not yet, at least. Only yesterday Tommy drove to London even after he specifically told the idiot not to come, he’d be no fun, none at all, and of course Tommy didn’t listen but did he listen later when he was laying naked in Alfie’s bed, tangled in the sheets, short of breath because Alfie had his cock in his hand? Yeah. Yeah, he listened to Alfie then. _No, no,_ he said in a ragged voice when Alfie asked him, all polite, if maybe they ought to take a break. _No,_ as if the only thing that ever mattered to him was to come as soon as possible, in Alfie Solomons’ bed, staring at Alfie Solomons’ face with that hazy expression. _You got to listen to me, mate,_ Alfie said then, and he’s pretty damn sure that Tommy answered _yeah._ And then Tommy came and slept for fifteen minutes or so, and okay, maybe Alfie was looking at him for the whole time. The idiot just looks so calm when he sleeps. And Alfie’s not going to be around for much longer to stare at Tommy Shelby’s face, is he? He’s got to do that now. Tommy understands. Tommy understands fucking well, too well, because later, when Tommy woke up, he only told Alfie to fuck off every time Alfie tried to talk some sense into him.  
  
It’s always the same discussion. They’ve been having it for almost six months now. Alfie’s fucking dying, alright, and it’s not fun. Tommy should fuck off and leave him be, because Tommy can’t handle people dying, no, not slowly, not when it’s not the bullet that’s killing them but sickness. Maybe later, when Tommy’s going to think about Alfie, he’d remember what it was like when they fucked for the first time. That’s a nice memory, it really is. He had Tommy on his back in his bed in London, in the same fucking bed he’s lying in right now actually. He kept his fingers on Tommy’s throat because for some goddamn reason it seemed to calm Tommy down, as if Tommy _needed_ someone to keep him in place. But Alfie was as gentle about it as Tommy would let him. And how Tommy looked at him, _fuck_ , how indeed, as if the man was wondering what the hell was going on, what the actual hell, and only because Alfie told him how utterly beautiful he was. All because of that. It was good, so good. He needs Tommy to remember that and not _this._  
  
“You’re not sleeping.”  
  
He blinks. Okay. Fine. He’s not sleeping. He’s not been sleeping in hours but Tommy isn’t supposed to know that, because then they’re going to have to talk about it and he’s going to have to tell Tommy to fuck off and Tommy’s going to say _no_ and that’s just…  
  
That’s just too fucking much, alright? It’s bad enough that he’s got to tell Tommy to go. It’s bad enough that he’s got to tell Tommy that he’s going to fucking die and that he wants, no, he _needs_ Tommy not to see that happening. It’s just _too much_ that he’s got to keep telling Tommy over and over again.  
  
“Alfie?” the fucker says in a soft voice.  
  
“Fuck off,” he says and coughs. No blood this time, good. He glances at Tommy and finds that the man is staring at him with a worried expression. Fucking hell. That’s _exactly_ why Tommy shouldn’t be here.  
  
“Want some water?”  
  
“I want –,” he says and then clears his throat, “I _need_ you to fucking _listen_ to me once and –“  
  
But that’s pretty much all of it, because Tommy puts his fucking hand onto Alfie’s mouth and holds it there. He grabs Tommy’s wrist. This just doesn’t do, no, definitely not. He might be dying but he’s not going to let Tommy Shelby interrupt him in the middle of sentence, only Tommy doesn’t even seem to realise Alfie’s squeezing his wrist.  
  
“Just shut up,” Tommy says in a voice that sounds genuinely bored, the obnoxious bastard. “If you want water, you can ask nicely.”  
  
He tries to say that he doesn’t want water, he’s _dying_ for fuck’s sake and Tommy can’t fix that with a glass of water or kisses or in any other way. Not that he doesn’t appreciate all the effort, because he does. He really does. But one of these days, he’s going to start crying and there’s absolutely no way he’ll let Tommy see _that._  
  
He bites Tommy’s finger but only gently. Tommy looks shocked all the same. Good.  
  
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“Give me that glass of water,” he says and then swallows. It’s not what he meant to say. But his throat is hoarse and there’s this pain in his chest that doesn’t really fade away anymore. He’s just fucking tired of fighting about this.  
  
“Wouldn’t hurt you to say _please_ ,” Tommy says but passes him the glass all the same. “We’ve talked about this before. Stop fucking telling me to leave.”  
  
“You never listen.”  
  
“You want to sleep or not? Because I’m fucking tired and if this is what you’re going to talk about –“  
  
“Listen,” he says, and maybe his voice is slightly desperate but fucking hell, he’s a desperate man trying to fix the last thing he can, “it just isn’t fucking right, Tommy, it isn’t. You must know that.”  
  
“And what isn’t?” Tommy asks and takes a deep breath and then lights a cigarette, the fucking bastard. He looks as beautiful as ever. Magnificent. Compelling. Also familiar now that they’ve been doing this for six months. He looks like he belongs in Alfie’s bed, his palm resting on Alfie’s shoulder.  
  
It’s funny business, dying, it _is._ Because there’ve been times when Alfie’s thought that it can’t happen soon enough. Surely he’s had his fair share of this life already. He’s fucked up multiple times, in multiple ways, over many years, and when someone’s going to fucking shoot him, it’ll be long overdue. But now, _now_ that he’s actually dying, he doesn’t want to. Fuck no. He wants to fucking _live._ He wants to push that utterly beautiful man against the mattress and kiss him and fuck him and love him and probably build a fucking cottage with him, for fuck’s sake. He’s become a bloody _romantic_ , for Tommy Shelby, and what an _excellent_ timing he had.  
  
“Alfie?” Tommy says in his more demanding voice. Fuck that he loves that voice. He loves everything, every piece of Tommy Shelby. It has happened once or twice that he wakes up in the middle of the night, his skin damp with cold sweat, wondering if he just told Tommy that he loves the bastard. But he’s pretty sure he hasn’t yet. He’s only done that in dreams and dreams don’t count, do they? Surely Tommy can’t see into his dreams? “What isn’t right?”  
  
_Oh._ Okay. He’ll say it for one last time. “You staying around for me.”  
  
“When you’re about to die.”  
  
“Fucking hell, Tommy,” he says before he has time to bite his lip, “I know that I’m dying. No need to rub that on my face.”  
  
“But you don’t really want me to leave you.”  
  
He closes his eyes. Maybe if he tries to, he can slip back into a dream, preferably one of those in which they’re naked in his bed, he and Tommy, but – okay, this is slightly embarrassing. They aren’t fucking. They’re only kissing. Very nicely, though. And then he tells Tommy that he loves him. In the dream. He’d never tell Tommy that while awake.  
  
“You don’t want me to leave,” Tommy says slowly, the real Tommy who’s smoking a cigarette in Alfie’s bed, “and I don’t want to leave.”  
  
“You should, though.”  
  
“Just shut up and sleep. You’ve got to be tired.”  
  
“I’ve been awaken for hours.”  
  
“Doing what? Trying to figure out how to get rid of me?”  
  
He gives Tommy his best glare, only lately he’s wondered if that’s got soft too. Tommy doesn’t even blink.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Tommy says. “Stop worrying. And shut up about it.”  
  
He should probably tell Tommy that he’s not _worrying._ But sometimes when he talks he realises he’s not sure if he means what he’s saying or perhaps the opposite, and he has a feeling that this might be one of those times. Perhaps it’d be best if he closed his eyes for a second, so that Tommy can finish his cigarette, and then they’ll talk. Tommy’s fingers feel very nice on his shoulder, though, and he’s surprisingly tired, and…  
  
…  
  
  
…and maybe he fell asleep for a few minutes, because there’s fucking sunshine lingering on Tommy’s bare neck and shoulder blades and arms, and Tommy’s snoring slightly and also holding Alfie’s wrist. The fucker looks so peaceful. So pretty. He always thought Tommy Shelby was pretty but to have the man right here, in his fucking _bed, sleeping_ as if he didn’t remember that Alfie has crossed him three times and that they both thought they were going to kill each other in the end…  
  
He’s going to stroke Tommy’s hair only a little. Tommy won’t wake up. Okay, maybe he’s going to run his fingers on Tommy’s cheekbones, and his lips, and his neck. Fucking beautiful, this man. Goddamn masterpiece. To fucking catch cancer and die when you’ve got a chance to be with someone so -  
  
“Alfie.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” he says but doesn’t pull his hand away. Tommy glances at him and grunts, the sleepy bastard.  
  
“Alfie, I’m sleeping.”  
  
“No, you aren’t.”  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Just a kiss, mate,” he says, because Tommy’s voice is soft and the man’s not even swearing at him. “Just a kiss.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
He’s not the kind of a man who regrets things, no, because there’re too damn many things to regret and that’d take time he doesn’t have anymore. _Tick tock_ , says the clock on the dresser. Sometimes when they’re in the bed, he and Tommy, he looks at it and wonders. How many weeks? It’s kind of clear that he shouldn’t, it only makes him more anxious and doesn’t help at all, but he can’t help it. It’s actually very convenient that he has Tommy Shelby to fucking kiss him and make him forget about the whole business with dying, even if it’s just for a few seconds.  
  
Convenient? No. Fuck no. It’s a fucking miracle. He kind of thought he didn’t believe in them but now he does. When they were in that beach and Tommy was going to shoot him, he had some faith alright. He thought there was a chance that Tommy would agree to fuck him instead of killing him and they’d go home and he’d fuck Tommy nicely enough and then they’d break ways. He’s had this thing for Tommy probably since they first met and Tommy’s fucking nose was bleeding onto his desk, but Tommy doesn’t feel the same. Tommy likes fucking women. Tommy fucking likes women. That’s what he probably thought when they were in the beach, but later, when they’d fucked and were lying in the bed, he realised he wanted to kiss Tommy. Really. _Really_ kiss Tommy, like, on his mouth, with feeling. Gently. Maybe holding his posh face in between his palms.  


But what’s been quite unbelievable is that Tommy actually kissed him back. And came back. And then let him come visit his goddamn castle in Warwickshire. And let him stay for the night. And introduced him to the family. And called him a _boyfriend._ Maybe he shouldn’t get so excited about that, but he does. He’s Tommy Shelby’s fucking boyfriend. Tommy has actually said that. Aloud. More than once. Maybe a month ago Tommy told one of Alfie’s nurses that he’s Alfie’s boyfriend and there’s no need to keep referring to him as _Mr. Solomon’s guest,_ which was possibly a bit rude and not necessary at all but _so_ good. He tried to fuck Tommy later but couldn’t, and Tommy kept kissing him and telling him to fucking take care of it with his hand, they had hands, hadn’t they? That was so sweet. Sometimes he can think about little else except how he loves -  
  
No, no, _no._ Bloody hell. He can’t think about that now, not when he’s awake and Tommy’s sitting in the chair beside him, having a cup of tea. That’s too awkward. And Tommy can’t know.  
  
“It’s not raining anymore,” Tommy says, thank God, so Alfie can think about something else for a moment.  
  
“What a clever observation –“  
  
“We could go for a walk.”  
  
He takes a deep breath. It hurts a bit. “No, we can’t.”  
  
Tommy fixes him with a sharp glare. “You feeling sick?”  
  
“Tommy,” he says and bits his lip,” one of these days, I’m not going to be able to get out of the bed.”  
  
“Not yet,” Tommy says and stands up. “Take your coat. We’re going out.”  
  
“Fucking -“  
  
“Just for a minute. I’ll hold you.”  
  
_You will what_ , he thinks but follows Tommy anyway. Lately it’s become painfully clear that he’d follow Tommy Shelby fucking anywhere. And it’s not too bad, no, when they walk side by side on the pavement and Tommy holds his arm. He’s only slightly worried about what Tommy’s going to do when things go really bad. He doesn’t want Tommy to hold his bloody pot for him.  
  
But he doesn’t want Tommy to go either.  
  
  
**  
  
  
So this is the goddamn dream again. They’re in Tommy’s ridiculously big house in Warwickshire, in a huge bed. The sun is shining. They’ve probably fucked already, only Alfie rarely dreams about _that_ , oddly enough. It’s like his brain doesn’t give a shit about fucking compared to Tommy Shelby lying by his side in bed, naked and calm and happy. He kisses Tommy. Tommy kisses him back. Everyone knows they’re together. They don’t give a fuck about what people say, and Alfie doesn’t even know why it means so much to him. But it _does._ Tommy Shelby will fucking kiss him in public if he wants to. And Alfie doesn’t _want_ to be kissed in public, not exactly, but to be with someone who’s willing to take a chance without a second thought whatsoever…  
  
He fucking loves Tommy. He does. He’d never say it aloud but it’s there. He’s fucking in love with this man, this utterly incredible and probably half-mad man. He wants to keep Tommy safe. He wants to fucking shoot everyone who ever tries to hurt Tommy. He wants to fix everything for Tommy and also he wants to keep everything the same, because Tommy must be the same, Tommy must be just like this, with all the oddness and madness and tendency to make very bad choices.  
  
“Fucking hell,” Tommy says.  
  
Alfie blinks. Tommy’s looking at him as he should be, but the sun isn’t shining anymore. And they aren’t in Warwickshire either. Tommy’s sitting in Alfie’s bed in London, smoking a cigarette.  
  
“What?” he says. There’s no reason to get worried, only he has a bad feeling about this. Also he’s pretty sure he’s awake now. “What did I say?”  
  
Tommy just shakes his head.  
  
“I was asleep.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything.”  
  
Tommy fucking _smiles_ at that.  
  
“Just bloody hell tell me what –“  
  
“You love me,” Tommy says and shrugs, but there’s something lingering on his face. “You’ve said that before.”  
  
“I _have?_ ” He should protest. He should say that he was only dreaming. He should say it was a joke. But the clock on the dresser is ticking and he can’t fucking _think._ “Tommy –“  
  
“It’s fine,” Tommy says and stands up. “I’m going to go downstairs and see if breakfast is ready.”  
  
“You bloody -,” but the words get stuck in his throat. “So, I said it aloud.”  
  
“You did.”  
  
“Fucking hell.”  
  
“It wasn’t the first time. You talk in your sleep, Alfie.”  
  
He opens his mouth and then closes it. _Shit._ He fucking talks in his sleep. He probably should’ve known that. He should’ve known that Tommy would pull every bloody secret out of him eventually. It’s just convenient that Tommy didn’t even have to make an effort for this one, because Alfie’s goddamn blabbering everything in his sleep and Tommy’s been in the bed with him, awake, listening to him bloody saying how much he loves -  
  
“Sorry,” he says and Tommy looks startled. “If I’d known that I was fucking doing it for real, I’d probably have said it a bit more… manly.”  
  
“You were very manly about it,” Tommy says, but the bastard is grinning now. He sits down on the edge of Alfie’s bed and rubs the cigarette against the line of his lower lip, watching Alfie with that look that always makes him mad with… everything.  
  
“Was I?”  
  
“Definitely,” Tommy says and then goes on in an even softer voice, _oh, oh, Tommy, I think I’m fucking in love with you, I think, Tommy, Tommy, fucking love -_  
  
It’s terrible. He’s a dying man, for fuck’s sake, can’t he keep a bit of his self-respect intact? But Tommy’s smile slowly fades away and his gaze is moving back and forth on Alfie’s face as if he’s searching for something. And frankly said, aren’t they both beyond mocking each other now? Because of all the things they’ve done so far, all the bloody things. They’ve been driving across good old England to see each other, they’ve been going on fucking _dates_ , they’ve kissed in Alfie’s kitchen, they’ve kissed in a quiet street in Birmingham where Tommy Shelby is a king and can fucking kiss another man anytime he wants to. They’ve gone to see Alfie’s doctor together. They’ve made arrangements so that Tommy can stay in London for these last bloody weeks. They’ve told Alfie’s housekeeper and maid that they’re going to listen to everything Tommy says as if they work for the bastard. They’ve been awake through some pretty bad nights when Alfie hasn’t been able to either sleep or stop coughing. They’ve stopped fucking but Tommy’s still here.  
  
“It’s true,” he says, “every fucking word you weren’t supposed to hear because I was talking to you _in a dream._ ”  
  
“It counts, though,” Tommy says but doesn’t look at him.  
  
“Yeah, it does.”  
  
“Good,” Tommy says and leans closer to squeeze his shoulder shortly. It’s pretty clear that he should at least get a kiss. He practically just told Tommy that he loves the idiot. But Tommy walks out of the room. Alfie hears the arrogant steps echoing in the hallway. Everything in Tommy is just so…so bloody… he can’t even say it. He can’t fucking find words, not even in his own head. But it’s good that the bastard now finally knows that Alfie loves him, isn’t it? Because if Alfie fucking dies today, then at least Tommy knows.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“If you tell me one more time to fuck off,” Tommy says one night, “I’m going to fucking do it.”  
  
Maybe that’s kind of fair, because neither of them has really slept and they’re both tired and angry and Alfie’s been complaining about how Tommy’s still fucking _here._ But now Tommy stares straight back at him in the dim light that comes through the windows, and he feels even worse than a few seconds ago. Fuck. _Fuck._ He opens his mouth and then closes it again, and Tommy’s shoulders fall a bit.  
  
“I thought so,” Tommy says. His voice is hoarse and barely audible, maybe because he’s been swearing at Alfie for the last half an hour.  
  
“Remember when we fucked for the first time?” Alfie says and tries to hold back but it doesn’t work. He can’t fucking stop himself. He raises his hand and grabs Tommy’s jaw, gently, as gently as it goes, and runs his thumb on Tommy’s mouth. Tommy doesn’t pull away. “You kept looking at me like you didn’t know what the fuck was happening. You were so _desperate._ ”  
  
“I wasn’t.”  
  
“Bloody desperate, mate,” he says. Tommy’s lower lip feels dry and chapped against his thumb. “If you were going to remember one thing about me –“  
  
Tommy grabs his wrist. It feels almost as if they’re holding hands, or as if Tommy’s trying to take his pulse. “Shut up, Alfie.”  
  
“What? _What?_ Can’t I get a bit soppy –“  
  
“Shut _up_ ,” Tommy says and actually holds Alfie’s goddamn hand in between his own. “I’m going to fucking remember everything. Stop talking and let me sleep a little.”  
  
He kind of wants to tell Tommy that he wouldn’t know what to do if Tommy actually listened to him and left. He wants to say that once in a while he almost forgets that he’s old and miserable and going to die very soon, just because Tommy’s with him, being brilliant and mad and pretty as hell. He wants to say that he’ll fucking do anything for Tommy at this point. And he doesn’t regret a thing. It’s four o’clock in the morning and he’s dying so maybe he could afford to get emotional. Just this once. He takes a deep breath and it stings in his lungs.  
  
“Alfie, Alfie, _Alfie,_ ” Tommy says, placing a hand on Alfie’s neck, “shut the fuck up.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
So what if he’s in love with Tommy Shelby and they both know it? Queerer things have happened. And okay, it isn’t right that it’s Monday afternoon and Tommy’s sitting behind the desk in Alfie’s bedroom, trying to read papers that have something to do with… fucking hell, he doesn’t even know. Tommy only said that they’re about business, and what did Alfie do, well, he sighed and stayed in his bed and didn’t complain at all. It’s not _right_ but he can’t even fucking say how much he appreciates it. The sun is shining today which makes him feel like the world is ending, but also the light coming through windows catches on Tommy’s hair and the side of his face as he tries to think about business in Alfie’s bedroom.  
  
A few more weeks, at least a few more days, and then this is going to be over. Tommy will go back to Birmingham where he should be. There’s plenty of time for Tommy to do whatever he’s going to do when Alfie’s dead. By now, it’s just bloody _good_ that Tommy sticks here, with Alfie. And he didn’t goddamn ask Tommy to. It’s not his fault. The stubborn idiot chose to stay with Alfie, so it’s all on him, it really is. Alfie’s not to blame.  
  
“What’s it? Are you in pain?”  
  
He flinches. Tommy’s staring at him now. “Not particularly, no.”  
  
“You look like you’re going to be sick.” Tommy’s face is all worried. Tommy’s voice is worried too. That’s annoying but also oddly touching. One of these days, he’s going to fucking cry in his sleep or something and Tommy will be there. But it’ll be alright. In a few weeks Tommy’s going to go back home and ride a horse and probably get himself in bloody trouble and all that usual nonsense. Tommy’s going to be the same than before, exactly the same, talking to a goddamn horse, smiling, as if he never sat by Alfie’s fucking deathbed.  
  
“Shut up,” Alfie says, but his voice has lost its edge. And Tommy never listened to him anyway, thank God.  
  
“I’ll just go over these papers,” Tommy says and nods towards the desk, “and then we can….”  
  
He stares at Tommy. Tommy stares back at him and eventually gives up. There isn’t much left that they can do. But maybe they’ll lay in Alfie’s bed and kiss. Yeah, that’d be fucking nice.  
  
The clock on the dresser is ticking.


End file.
